The Something of our World
by tai-chi-leigh
Summary: Sometimes just one lifetime isn't enough. Percabeth oneshot.


**A/N: What?! Not an AU?**

**This idea came to me so I decided to write it. If any of the facts or descriptions of the Underworld are inconsistent with the series then I'm sorry. This is how I imagined the story would go.**

**Thank you to my beta, Jill, for her amazing advice. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

She feels empty; insubstantial.

Where there used to be flesh on her bones it has faded, melted off, until only her translucent skin remains. The thrum of her heart is gone, the blood pumping through her veins no longer warm and thick. Her body gives off a sort of glow. She feels like she's made up of shadows, of moonlight, apply pressure and she'll blow away. The feeling isn't nice, but it doesn't hurt either. She just feels hollow.

Annabeth looks around the cavern at the other souls waiting for their turn to be carried into the Underworld. They, too, are chiseled frames against the cold drip of the stone walls. Instead of nerves and muscle they are skin and bones. Yet they're not old or decrepit; they're not skeletons. She sees young faces, she sees memories dancing in empty eyes. She sees spirits clinging onto love, and in that way she sees bits of life.

Death, she thinks, isn't so bad.

The tips of her fingers feel warm where _he_ was touching her just moments ago, but it's not the burning kind of heat. This heat doesn't carry the weight of goodbyes. It carries the weight of comfort, a familiar ache. It was her time, and they both knew it. Soon it will be his.

They have a promise to wait for each other, so she does.

* * *

When he arrives exactly four hundred and thirty eight days later, he's the brightest soul in the Underworld. Like the other souls, he has shadows as eyes, his skin glows soft and flakey. His muscle is warped and thin and his frame seems smaller, but it's still him.

He finds her—sees her though the crowd of lost souls— and he's exactly the same as always. But the two of them are no longer old, they no longer have silver heads or wrinkled skin or hunched shoulders. The gray strip of hair they shared after holding up the world had slowly vanished with old age, but now she can see it again under the tufts of black.

He looks like the same boy that fought Kronos, turned down immortality, jumped into Tartarus with her. He's the same boy who that threw blue M&Ms at her on their first mortal date, who proposed on the beach, who had kids with her, who grew old with her.

And she thinks that she might be the same, too. Everything about her feels young. The weightlessness of death that was at first uncomfortable feels anchored when he's nearby.

* * *

Percy brings with him an aura of excitement, of bubbling curiosity. It's refreshing.

She reaches out her hand to brush back his hair and he curls his hand intimately at the slope of her hip. There's no real touch—their hands simply go through each other like mist—but she feels pressure and it's enough, for now.

He still smiles at her fondly, and she thinks it feels like the beginning of the world all over again.

* * *

"How are the children?" she asks sometime later over the dull chatter of the dead, as they wait their turn.

"Older," he says, watching her face for signs of hurt. He finds them, she can tell, but he continues carefully. "They look like both of us. And they think like you."

This topic burns, she feels like she's not getting enough air into her lungs that sit inside her body like deflated paper bags.

"You were only gone about a year before me." He chooses his words with caution, and Annabeth can tell that if his eye sockets weren't empty, she'd see the familiar look of concern in them. "They miss you. Everyone does—did—me especially."

She changes the topic. They have all of eternity to talk about this, and she can't do it yet. The loss is still fresh.

"And camp?"

The shadows clear from his face. He looks wistful, almost. "Same as ever. They've got a statue for us."

She snorts.

He presses his lips lovingly to her temple and she wishes more than ever that she could feel it.

* * *

Eventually—she stopped counting time when he arrived—they get onto one of the boats. The water is cold and black and the air is heavy like soup when they make their way to the Underworld. He's standing next to her; she imagines his shoulder brushing against hers with each swell of the waves and the rocking of the boat.

They're not scared. How could they be, after surviving Tartarus? There's blackness around them, their bones are cold. Some of the other souls shake and chatter.

They seem lost. Annabeth feels found.

* * *

Judgment isn't particularly frightening either. In fact, it's almost a relief from the monotony. She goes first; Percy says he'll follow after her. The room is warm, grand, the judges look on with cold indifference, it seems.

She doesn't blame them. She imagines judging the fate of the millions of souls passing through isn't particularly exciting.

They flip through thick notebooks that have her life written inside them—her failures and her accomplishments. Part of her feels bitter that that's all there is left of her, some words on a page. Everything about her life is neat, tidy, wrapped up.

Her book is finished, filled to the brim. No more space, no more story. So is Percy's.

(They make Elysium. Neither one can say they're surprised.)

* * *

Elysium is nice; it's everything they expected. If they stay they'll be together—content for the rest of eternity.

But there's a difference between being happy and being content, and neither one can say they are.

She misses drumming adrenaline, the heat of battle. She misses the sun on her shoulders and she misses the New York skyline.

He misses the ocean and the sand. He misses camp, he misses bravery, he misses his friends.

They miss each other.

Death isn't bad. But it isn't good, either.

Their relationship has been hard their whole life, battling innumerable odds. But they survived together for a long time.

She wants to touch him again; he wants to see her eyes. She's not so surprised when he suggests one day that they try for Isles of Blest.

* * *

He's clinging to her, gripping her, and she can feel the desperation through his ghostly fingers. They only have seconds now.

Their voices are hushed, they're just inches apart, and Annabeth is reminded of hiding in closets, alleyways, the deepest parts of Tartarus. She's reminded of youth, and that compels her to believe they're making the best decision to get that back again and to have each other again.

"I'm going to miss you so much," he says.

She thinks she might be crying if she could. The spaces where she should have eyes burn.

"Yeah."

"We're going to be fine. We're going to be together. Annabeth—"

He breaks off and she can see his jaw chattering.

And although she's terrified of a starting over, she knows it's the right decision for both of them. Percy is the sun—he's not supposed to be kept in shadows.

She feels herself slipping away. Her gaze is unfocused, and she grabs for him even though he's nothing but air.

In this next life, there will be no Percy. She's determined to find him again—she knows she will—but it won't be _him_. Whether he's John or Sam or skinny or pale, whether he has sea green eyes or brown, whether his eyebrows dip in the same way or his smile shines as bright, _her_ Percy will be gone.

But she'll still look. Challenges never stopped them before.

He's almost disappeared now, she can just make out his presence next to her.

"As long as we're together," she says, knowing he'll remember the last time she said those words. This feels too similar, maybe worse.

The last thing she sees is a flash of green; the last thing she hears is his voice calling out to her.

"I'll be waiting."

She feels empty; insubstantial.

* * *

Seconds later two children are born—a girl with green eyes and a boy with gray. She's a daughter of Poseidon and he's a son of Athena.

It'll never work.


End file.
